A Journey Begins

"Hello, dad!" he said, crossing swiftly to where his father sat by the
reading lamp.

Their powerful grip lingered. Old Dick Neeland, ruddy, white-haired,
straight as a pine, stood up in his old slippers and quilted smoking
coat, his brier pipe poised in his left hand.

"Splendid, Jim. I've been thinking about you this evening." He might
have added that there were few moments when his son was not in his
thoughts.

"Are you all right, dad?"

"Absolutely. You are, too, I see."

They seated themselves.

"Hungry, Jim?"

"No; I dined aboard."

"You didn't telegraph me."

"No; I came at short notice."

"Can't you stay?"

"Dad, I have a drawing-room reserved for the midnight tonight, and I
am sailing on the Volhynia tomorrow at nine in the morning!"

"God bless me! Why, Jim?"

"Dad, I'll tell you all I know about it."

His father sat with brier pipe suspended and keen blue eyes fixed on
his son, while the son told everything he knew about the reason for
his flying trip to Paris.

"You see how it is, don't you, dad?" he ended. "The Princess has been
a good and loyal friend to me. She has used her influence; I have met,
through her, the people I ought to know, and they have given me work
to do. I'm in her debt; I'm under real obligation to her. And I've got
to go, that's all."

Old Dick Neeland's clear eyes of a sportsman continued to study his
son's face.

"Yes, you've got to go," he said. He smoked for a few moments, then:
"What the devil does it mean, anyway? Have you any notion, Jim?"